


it's no good

by abeautifulmomentofair



Series: howl au [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ((also this is 2nd person Liam's POV)), Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble, M/M, and they vaguely hate each other, idk they live in new york and they're really sad, s/o to richard siken, there isn't enough lirry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:41:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abeautifulmomentofair/pseuds/abeautifulmomentofair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>liam reflects on his life with harry in New York. </p><p>(drabble for my fic inspired by howl by allen ginsberg)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's no good

**Author's Note:**

> (there's one little part from harry's pov - you'll catch it)

what happens when you fall in love with the saddest boy in new york? you die. a thousand times you die. and he does it to you. every night. every stale broken night. every time he wraps his legs around your waist and pulls you in. and you look into his eyes. they’re glassy but there’s something. and he’s choking on gasps. looks close to tears (you did that.) and you feel him dying, then.

he tells you through sobs that he needs this. (you hear: i need something bigger than myself. i need to be alive for an hour and a half so if you could please just.)

you both die here, you suppose.

you're dead beat after work. you're drained sapped and you don't have it to give.

(this is much more than sexual prowess)

he doesn't seem to understand. you put in everything for this fucking shoebox and he just lays around looking tragic and pretty. it's not a fair trade. (the coffee is.)

you get sick of the perpetual bullshit political correctness and being a good person. it's so expensive.

you've been biting your tongue for 5 years.

you suppose that you hate yourself, the way he hates you. the way he scorns capitalism and scoffs at your work suits. he calls you a cog. (half of it is to wind you up; he loves the chase; he loves the fire in your eyes; he loves (he love love love loves- hate that he loves) the lapels of your suit jackets; he loves to grab; he loves the fight). you don't call him anything, but he knows that a whispered _baby_ is the same thing as _useless_.

he knows that gifts on Tuesdays mean you're _a kept boy, a housewife._

he knows that he only ought to hate himself the way he hates you.

there are some soft Sundays when he wakes up with the sun. (it's not a cute metaphor,’ you tell yourself begrudgingly). and he swings his legs, brackets your hips, leans over your chest. pressed up against each other, both very solid and warm. both very sleepy and slow. (your hands still find his hips; you hold him there; he can't leave you like this, in all of his forms. you won't let him flit away and you won't let him roll off onto the floor, into the kitchen making coffee as if this was all just a ruse to get you up.)

he stretches up and across you, to your lips. he presses his to yours and you know you're supposed to pretend like they aren't dry, and that morning breath doesn't bother you. (and on some level, it doesn't, not really. you've just been so conditioned to a facsimile.)

(he did this but on slow Sunday mornings he tries to undo it)

(you won't bear the burden)

you let him undo the ties and most times it looks like him falling apart on top of you; you swear Sunday's are the only days like this. and finally he does all the work.

\----

you scream the most on week nights. you try not to, because your mother had warned you about a happy marriage, and because the walls are paper thin, and because you rarely have words left at 5 o’clock. you scream regardless.

you come home and the pasta is ready

(pasta. again. you need to watch your fucking carbs. you consume and consume and consume and consume and go nowhere.)

(you wonder, vaguely, stabbing your fork, how much cavatappi noodles cost. you ask him.)

(he bites out a _they weren't expensive_ , which means _I don't care, I used your card anyway._ )

then, your fork clatters the wrong way and he starts up.

  
\----

  
and so he breathes money. and this is how he lives. you skipped chemistry but it's ok bc around him air is not made up of oxygen and hydrogen and helium and waste. it is made up of rich tradition and college tuition paid in full and- waste.

and so you breathe air. just regular air. you can't afford anything fancy. maybe on good days. every other Friday. you can afford the name brand stuff.

you remember walking when you were in high school. you never did much of anything else (you never remember much of anything else) and there- there was a girl. she was your friend though. nothing more. she had a pure heart, and honest eyes, and a cocktail of things wrong with her head. and a supportive family she hid from. she had many selves. (she killed herself the winter before graduation. she was so close, so were you.) but you walked together.

no tragedy.

there is no love that comes softly. there is but the crashing of waves and the shores of soul. there is but a tapered heartbeat and shortness of breath. the truest love will kill you in consumption. the truest love will force you to give up everything and feel no guilt. it is then you find yourself not caring, because all that you care about is in front of you. the only word on your tongue is _life_ , and you share this.

  
\----

  
he puts it on sometimes. a true actor. loves to play. loves to be bored. you tell him that sometimes as he's falling into your lap, that that's the reason why he gets these ideas in his head, he's alone all day. he starts to feel empty.

he likes to pretend it's all very romantic. like you love each other. like you don't tear at each other's throats every other day.

he likes especially to be soft. to be babied. to be taken care of. he likes the strong expanse of your shoulders and the way it makes him feel. he likes your hands on his hips. he likes to be pushed around.

you give him what you can, in your own. distantly, it occurs to you that he doesn't realize you're poor, or he does and doesn't care. so he buys things. all sort of weird contraptions you spend more time googling how to use properly than actually using them. he says they make him feel safe. snaps, from the bed. and that you should respect that.

in reading, you discover that there is actual vocabulary for all the fucked up things you do to each other. there are entire blogs dedicated to the preservation of people exactly like you. they look happier. well. they look like they have better lighting. you suggest, half joking, that you should invest in a flood light and a tripod. a better camera. he suggests that you shut the fuck up and do something already.

 

 

 


End file.
